Puberty
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Following a shower, Damian discovers something has changed. He cannot decide if it is normal or not, since he has no frame of reference. Being driven mad by a question he cannot answer, the boy turns to Alfred for advice. If it's well received, there may be more to come. Please Read and Review if you like it and want to see more. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is something I thought of today. Thought it might play well as a one-shot, but maybe if reception is positive, I will make it into a series focusing on Damian growing up. Following a shower, Damian discovers something has changed. He cannot decide if it is normal or not, since he has no frame of reference. Being driven mad by a question he cannot answer, the boy turns to Alfred for counsel. Enjoy.**

 **Puberty**

I awake sometime in the early morning. I feel well-rested enough to resist the urge to sleep further and get up. Since Pennyworth is too lazy to rise at five like a normal servant would, I will have to wait for breakfast. I am not doing that corpse's work for him. I decide to forego my usual morning calisthenics since I still do not feel my injuries would agree with the stress and enjoy a shower instead. I am in the process of leaving the bathroom when something catches my eye in the mirror over the sink. There is something odd about my reflection. I scrutinize it carefully.

The discoloration on my ribs and shoulder are still visible, but these do not concern me. The faint outline of the bullet hole I sustained from Todd is also of no consequence. Through process of elimination, everything above my waist is discounted. I move further down. My eyes stop and focus. I cannot be certain, but I think it is bigger. I hold it and my index finger out for comparison. There is roughly half-an-inch of growth. I frown. I am unable to decide whether this is normal or not. I suppose eleven is not too young for developments of this sort. _But is it normal?_ I hear a voice asking me, regardless of my desire to focus on other matters. I discontinue my examination and dress hurriedly. There are more productive ways of spending my morning. I head down to the cave.

I am relieved to find Father is not still working. I do not wish for conversation or even silence if he is present, particularly not now. The voice is still demanding an answer to a question I cannot answer: _but is it normal?_ I don't know. Stop repeating it. I wish to work alone.

With Father, I always feel that he is watching me when we are in the same room. It often seems more like scrutiny or judgement than mere gawping. Pennyworth is in the habit of gawping at me. Sometimes he smiles, like my activities or efforts at self-improvement are somehow amusing. Father never smiles unless I become angry. Then he finds me amusing as well. They are both morons, my father at times and Pennyworth at all times. I sit down in the laboratory and continue work on my programmable projectiles, expecting the project to purge the voice and its maddening question.

"Good morning, Master Damian." I roll my eyes as the servant addresses me. I have had barely an hour to myself and already I am plagued by this withered husk's presence. I continue manipulating the circuitry under microscope, but the same voice has been harassing me throughout my work. _But is it normal?_ I shake the thought loose.

"What do you want, Pennyworth?" I say, not bothering to hide my contempt. I hear his footsteps approach from behind.

"You mean other than to see your sunny smile, Sir?" He replies with too much discernable sarcasm for my taste. I do not look even when he is standing directly behind me. "I have come to give you your preferred breakfast: a four egg-white omelet, a small bowl of oatmeal and half of a freshly pitted avocado." Pennyworth explains setting down a tray beside me. I nod.

"Fine. Now go away. I am too busy to entertain your presence."

"So I can see. I take it you are still tinkering with the auto-pilot function of your shuriken?" He inquires. I have yet to keep the projectiles airborne for longer than a few seconds before I meet failure. If they are to be effective, they must be able to fly under their own power. _But is it normal?_ That requires a proper guidance system and piloting function. I have been attending to the problems for the past seven days without success. I feel my mood sour further.

"That is none of your business, servant." I say returning to my work. _But is it normal?_ This time the nagging voice results in me inadvertently shocking myself when my finger slips into the exposed wiring. My dentist's tool falls on the floor, out of my reach. I resist the urge to suck my now burnt finger in front of this cretin. _But is it normal?_ Shut up. I slowly raise my head from the microscope. When I look to my left, I find Pennyworth holding out my dropped tool. He is smiling in amusement at me again. I glare at him.

"Would you like me to check your finger, Sir? It looked to be a nasty shock."

"No. I will be fine. Leave. Now." I say snatching the tool from his hand only to drop it again when my burnt finger refuses to cooperate. _But is it normal?_ Go away. Go away now. The servant regards me again with a softer smile.

"Now may I check, young man?"

"Fine. Just be quick about it. I'm very busy with this project."

"Certainly." Pennyworth applies disinfectant to the burn before some kind of cream. He then covers the skin in gauze. He is efficient I suppose, if nothing else. It no longer hurts in any case. "Please take precautions, Master Damian. Wear gloves if you must tinker with exposed wires." He offers before standing up and preparing to leave. I consider my reflection. _But is it normal?_ I cannot stand much more of this distraction.

"I wish to check something else with you, Pennyworth. Stay a moment…please." I call before he is too far away. He turns towards me.

"If you will call me Alfred instead of referring to me as if I am a military recruit, I may consider it." The old fossil responds haughtily. I bite my tongue. Is there some alternative to this humiliation? Would I want to discuss this issue with Father? I cannot foresee how I would ever broach this subject without dying a little inside. And what would he say in reply? _But is it normal, Father? No, son, it is not. Kindly refrain from discussing it again._ Should I ask Dick for advice? No, I could not utter such words over the phone or by video call. That would also result in the death of my pride, especially if he laughed inanely as is his custom. Perhaps there is another-

"I see such informalities are beneath you this morning, Master Damian. Please excuse me." Pennyworth says to interrupt my thought processes which are already being interrupted every few seconds by other unwanted elements. He turns towards the stairs. _But is it normal?_ I swallow my pride.

"Please wait, Alfred!" I shout, my tone more desperate that I would have liked it to be. The servant turns and holds up a hand to indicate he is coming. A moment later he sits down beside me at the workbench. He puts a hand on the back of my neck and does not look amused by the situation at all.

"Are you alright, young man? I did not wish to say, but you do look uncharacteristically distressed this morning. What is it?" He asks. I feel his bony fingers kneading the flesh on my neck, a gesture I am told is meant to be comforting. For some reason, it is. Regardless of our respective positions – I, the master and he, the servant – I still hesitate in explaining my concerns. _But is it normal?_ I have terrible suspicions such questions are not asked between men. I therefore give him caveats.

"Promise you will not tell my father…or laugh at me." I say.

"Of course not, Sir. This matter shall stay between us and be addressed with the utmost gravity. I promise you." Pennyworth assures me in a voice that holds no tricks or amusement. I sigh.

"Certain…appendages of my anatomy appear to have grown larger. To make it clearer…these elements are found below my waistline…and are of a sensitive nature." I say checking for the smallest hint of a smile on his face during each pause to ensue I am not being mocked or derided. He nods in understanding and his expression urges me to elaborate further. His fingers still knead my skin in a pleasant manner. The voice nags again, but I am able to ignore it. I continue. "The difference in size, that I have noticed, is half-an-inch. It appears to have grown by this much in the last month or so." The servant nods again. I believe he is waiting for a question to be posed. I try to feign nonchalance by shrugging my shoulders. "Is that kind of sudden growth normal in children my age?"

"It is not uncommon, Sir. Such rapid growth in such a place can often be attributed to the first signs of puberty in boys your age. Perhaps it could be seen as early, given you are barely eleven-and-a-half, but certainly not abnormal in any way. You have nothing to worry about I can assure you." He tells me with a smile I find supportive instead of facetious as is typical of our conversations. I nod.

"You know I'm talking about my p-"

"Yes, young man, I had gathered as much. You need not say more."

"Did my father ever express-"

"Yes, Master Damian, in his youth he certainly did. All of them did. Do not think you are the only one who has broached such a delicate subject. I am not ill-prepared for such a talk. If you ever wish for further advice or guidance, I am at your disposal." He says finally taking his hand from my neck. I find I miss it. I wait for the voice to pose its mantra-like question but it stays silent. The matter has been put to bed. I clear my throat.

"I…regret treating you with disdain during my tenure at this house, Alfred. It pains me to admit that I had not realized your worth to my father until this moment. Perhaps…in future…we might- I might, be more cordial to you." I articulate with some difficulty. I cannot quite find the right word to express my regret. Alfred – not Pennyworth, Alfred – raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Am I receiving an apology of sorts from you, Sir?" He inquires. That is it. That is the word I need: apologize. I do not believe I have ever uttered such things to a servant in my life. I nod my head.

"Yes, precisely. This is an apology, Alfred. I'm sorry for being so curt-" I stop when I see his disapproval at my choice of language in describing my actions towards him. I rephrase. "A brat. I'm sorry for being such a brat to you." He smiles in approval and amusement at my admission. For once I find I am able to smile too. He inclines his head in appreciation.

"I am very pleased to accept your apology, Master Damian. Please understand that I have never been offended by your behavior, merely disappointed you are not beneath such vulgar practices. Any man who is a prince should also be a gentleman." He informs me before extending a hand. "Let us shake on this matter and put it behind us, as gentlemen do." I incline my head in agreement and shake his hand. It disappears, apparently swallowed by the wrinkled and callused mass of flesh that characterizes the mummy's hand. I should be glad it is still warm.

"You shall say nothing of our discussion to my father?" I check. Alfred nods.

"You have my word."

"Thank you for listening. Now, please leave me to my work?"

"Yes, young man. Please get your breakfast before it grows cold. I will collect the plate in one hour." I watch him leave via the stairs. The start of puberty he says. I reach into my pants. Normal he claims. I take my hand out. If my father took his advice at my age concerning such matters, I will too. I go back to my work. I smile. I am finally growing up. I will be Batman soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Variation on the same theme. Damian attends a party with his father and, as usual, is hating it. A chance accident at the buffet table sparks an unusual chain of events. Enjoy.**

 **Girl**

I loathe social niceties. My father's insistence on dragging me to every party, gala or ball thrown by this cesspool of a city is never anything but a chore. The only saving graces of being forced into such situations are the concession he must make if I am to go willingly. I despise bowties and dress shoes. With my mother I grew to love eastern conventions and their loose, comfortable clothing. Here in the west, particularly in America, there is no pageantry. I will conform to neckwear only if such a dress code is mandatory. However, even when such rules are in effect, my father's wealth and status means I can flout them.

So I always wear my shirt open at the collar and sneakers of some loud colour. My father tolerates my lack of etiquette with his usual stoicism. Even when all other children in attendance conform to the same rules as their parents, my father is never embarrassed to introduce me to other guests as his son or how proud he is of me. I used to find such behavior strange from him, particularly when contrasting his attitude towards me on the street, but have learned that my age and background also excuses me from social fallacies. I believe I am a novelty to them because I am Bruce Wayne's biological son, but nothing more than an oddity. I do not care in any case. These people are dull and hollow behind their genial veneers. My father is not. That he can become indistinguishable from such a mass of identical faces is testament to his acting abilities and Alfred's lessons. The man that parades me at parties is not my father. The warrior who berates my technique when knocking out a degenerate's teeth is my father. I do not wish for anything else.

This evening I have been trapped at a black tie gala for some bland charity or other, watching people fawn over my father from a chair near the buffet table. I have not eaten any of the food, since it looks plebian at best. I have been nursing a glass of cola for most of the night, but now find the glass is empty and I must venture back amongst the barnyard animals for a refill. I shove my way through some bloated bodies and reach the refreshments. As I pour myself a new glass, my elbow jostles the person next to me. There is a splash and then an angry groan. When I turn to my left, I find myself confronted with a girl of thirteen or so glaring at me and indicating her soiled dress. I'd say she is four inches taller than me.

"Well?" She says expectantly. I frown at her. Does she expect an apology from me for her mistake? She spilt her own drink, lemonade by the smell of it, whereas I did nothing.

"Well what, girl?" I ask setting down my pitcher on the table. She looks bemused, indicating the large stain on her bosom.

"Aren't you going to say something?" She says, apparently trying to prompt me. I consider.

"Yes. Unless you are soliciting men, I would advise you to cover that up so as not to draw undue attention." I say helpfully before walking off back to my seat. A moment later, I am shoved hard from behind. I am able to recover without spilling my drink. When I turn to face my assailant, my glass is upended on my shirt, staining it brown. It is the girl again, now smirking contemptuously.

"Now we're even." She tells me. I shrug.

"Does that mean you will leave me alone now?" I inquire, already disinterested in her presence. My eye is once again drawn to her chest. She seems to already have cleavage. Perhaps she is older than I thought. She shakes her head.

"No. What's your name?"

"Do you not know it?" I ask. I was certain my father had paraded me in front of every crowd of people here, including those with obnoxious children, at least once. She offers incredulity.

"Wow you're arrogant. How old are you, like nine?"

"I'm eleven, Harlot. I take it you already walk the streets if your wardrobe is anything to go by."

"Harlot? Where did you go to school, Oxford in the nineteenth century?" She says with a giggle I cannot interpret. Her expression has softened somewhat. I am unsure why.

"I have studied at many institutions, some of which are located in England. I take it you are educated mostly behind a massage parlor or some other place of ill-repute?" I say with a sneer. She laughs this time, almost as if my scathing insults are somehow not intended to hurt her. I do not understand.

"That silver spoon is crammed so far up your ass it's practically coming out your mouth, huh?" She replies smiling, "and yet you're still staring at my boobs like every other horny boy at this shindig." I avert my eyes. They are somewhat attention-grabbing.

"I have to go. Excuse me." I say turning to leave. She grabs hold of my shoulder and I almost launch her into the air by preparing a shoulder throw. As a consequence, she is half-mounted on my back. Instead of getting off in disgust, the girl instead wraps her arms around my neck, forcing me to counter her weight by hooking my arms underneath her legs. I believe this is called 'piggy-backing'.

"You're crazy strong for an eleven year old." She remarks from her new vantage point. I feel the gentle pressure of her breasts against my back and am unsure what to do next. Is this courting of some description? Perhaps if I were a circus clown, such activity would be part of the mating ritual, but this…this is…

"Are you going to carry me somewhere or not?" She asks, prodding with her heels like one would a horse. I am aware people are now watching us like they would animals at a zoo, wondering if we will perform or not. I hastily move away, heading towards my seat once again. "Is this even hard for you?" The girl comments as I reach the chair thirty seconds later. She climbs down as I shake my head.

"No. You seem a healthy weight without being too obese or skeletal in your appearance." I say moving to sit down. She sits in my seat instead.

"Seriously, who are you? You're not like the other boys at this party. Aren't you going to tell me about how rich you are or how big your last birthday present was? Aren't you people all about bragging?" I frown in uncertainty of whether she wishes me to divulge such information or not. My father usually fields such inane questions. I do not reply. I merely stare, trying not to look at her bosom. Its appeal is very odd. She rolls her eyes, a clear sign of frustration, before sighing. He presses a hand to her chest. "I'm Amber Gilt. I'm thirteen. My parents are here because we won tickets in a raffle. Now it's your turn to speak."

"Why should I speak? You seem to have more to say."

"Because it's polite and, even though I'm not a rich bimbo with airs and a short skirt, I'm still a lady." I do not speak to lower classes out of principle. I find them vulgar and coarse. Girls of any ilk are even worse. However, I cannot remember ever finding myself engaged in such a conversation at these events. It is actually interesting. So I give her an answer.

"My name is Damian Wayne. My father dragged me here because he's the richest man in Gotham and has to attend."

"Didn't you once chair your dad's company? I saw it in the papers one day a while back." The girl says, presumably to demonstrate she can read. I cannot fathom another reason to bring up such banality. I am dismissive of the accolade.

"My father's absence demanded some action on my part. I was only formally CEO for a week. Then my father returned to helm the company."

"Hmm. Give me your jacket."

"Why?"

"So I don't look like a drunk tramp. Give me it."

"I doubt it will fit you."

"Let me try anyway." I reluctantly remove my jacket and hand it out to her. She thumbs the lapels. "It's really soft. What make is it?" She asks putting it on. It fits everywhere apart from her chest, but still stops it being an eyesore. I am strangely upset by this and do not know why. I shrug.

"I don't know."

"You're the richest boy in Gotham and you have no idea where your clothes come from? Every other boy here is spouting drivel about Gucci and Versace. It's like some competition to see who can spend the most money on the least amount of fabric. Aren't you interested?" She checks. I frown at her analysis.

"No. Besides I am not the richest boy in Gotham."

"But you said your dad is the richest man in Gotham."

"Yes. He is. But that is his money, not mine. I have no interest in spending money that is not mine. When I come of age, I will not inherit his wealth. Even if it were offered, I would not want it for hedonistic exhibitionism. I would rather earn and spend my own money on worthier crusades." I tell her. I have never told a stranger such things before, even under duress. My hopes and ambitions are private and for me only. It baffles me how much I have already disclosed. It feels oddly freeing to do so. She smiles at me.

"Like what?"

"Medical research, mostly. I would like to find ways to regrow limbs or repair spinal injuries so that crippled people may enjoy a better quality of life." I tell her, despite the fact my mother has already successfully substituted my broken spine for a donor and can also regrow limbs should they be required. It is close to the truth, more so that I usually share. Her expression seems to be one of approval at my choices.

"You're pretty weird, Damian, for any eleven-year-old." She informs me before grinning, "But that's probably why I like you so much. Plus, you wear some pretty kick-ass sneakers for a black tie do." She says eyeing my multi-colored skull plastered Converse sneakers. She both looks and sounds sincere in her praise for them. There is a pause.

"Am I supposed to-"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne: pay the lady a compliment in return."

"About your choice of eveningwear?" She stifles a laugh. I frown in confusion.

"You have such a nice way of putting things, Damian: it's just unreal how well-spoken you are." She assures me before collecting herself and nodding at me, "yes, a compliment about my 'eveningwear' would be nice."

"Your gown does not look cheap." I offer. She rolls her eyes but continues smiling.

"That's good enough for a first try."

The rest of the gala goes quickly. We go over to a sofa and talk for a while longer. She volunteers some information about her family and what her parents do. I return it by listing some of my hobbies. When I mention gymnastics, she also claims to be into the discipline. She suggests a handstand competition, but retracts the idea when I mention where her dress would fall if in an inverted position. We then somehow graduate to arm-wrestling, which I win, and thumb wars…which I lose. Were she not a girl, I would accuse her of cheating. After that, more talking follows more games until I am somehow locked in a bitter scoring contest, attempting to recite the alphabet without any vowels and only consonants that do not feature in my full name.

"X, Y…"

"Wrong!" The girl giggles, "I know your last name has a 'Y' in Damian! That makes the final score 38-37 to me! I win!"

"I still maintain your last name has a 'U' in it, Ms. Guilt."

"Nope. Gilt, without a 'U'. Don't be sore because you lost: you're a hell of a lot better than my brothers at playing and they've known the rules for years."

"How can they when the rules and the games change so frequently?"

"Practice, Damian, practice makes perfect, right?"

"I suppose there is merit in such a statement. What now?"

"I get to choose a reward."

"And what do you wish for your reward?"

"You to kiss me on the lips."

I look at her, imagining either I misheard her or am being teased in some fashion. Neither is correct. I have read such gestures are indicative of romantic intent. I also read other literature, arguing in the opposite direction. She taps me on my temple.

"Don't overthink it, Damian. It's just something girls like to do to boys to show their appreciation. I thought it might be fun for you to show your appreciation for me instead. You know how to kiss right? You are from this planet, right?"

"I know the mechanics. Shall I-"

"Hurry up before the next ice-age arrives."

I pucker my lips as I see so many idiots do in the archaic movies Father makes me watch with him. She does the same. I lean forward and she does too. Our lips press against one another and the whole motion is awkward. I do not see the appeal of this ritual. I lean back and frown at the wet texture of my lips. I wipe my mouth and hear her laugh. "Think I've got cooties or something?" I cannot help but feel embarrassed. I have done it incorrectly it would seem. I move my eyes to another part of the room.

"I am not stupid…Amber. I know such nonsense does not exist." I respond, addressing her by her first name for the first time. It is pleasant-sounding.

"You're cute when you're flustered." She remarks before stroking my cheek. Her attention is drawn elsewhere. "That's my mom calling." She announces as her green eyes drift back to mine, "Maybe I'll see you around, Damian. Want your fancy coat back?"

"Keep it. My father will not mind."

"Thanks for making this bearable. See you." She kisses me on the cheek, stands up and leaves without another word. I sit there in silence, imagining how unusual this gala and my own attitudes to others have become. I rub my cheek before smiling. Father sits down next to me a moment later. The large ballroom is nearly empty now and he ventures to unfasten his tie and the top button of his shirt.

"Your evening seemed…fruitful." He says in a way that tells me he saw everything. I look at him and find he is flashing me a genuine smile, something he only reserves for those he truly cares about. I roll my eyes and scoff.

"Really Father, you see what you want to see."

He thumbs the now dry stain on my shirt. "I see this was supposed to be retaliation. You would never spill it on yourself. She seemed very nice, son." I bat his hand away and shake my head.

"She was just making a nuisance of herself to annoy me." I argue only to receive a light clap on the back of my head.

"We both know that is not true, Damian. If you like, I could arrange-"

"I can find her, Father." I interrupt producing the folded piece of paper she slipped in my pocket whilst leaving. It has her cellphone number on it in purple ink. "Thank you anyway."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: See how this plays out. The thought of Amber Gilt is putting Damian off his game on the streets. Attempts to rectify it in the cave afterwards, lead to bigger problems…**

 **Please Read and Review to tell me whether this story is heading in the right direction or not. I have at least two more chapters planned if this is well-received.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Pressure**

I do not understand. Tonight during patrol duties, I was both poor in execution and inattentive when engaged in combat. That girl is to blame. I cannot stop imagining her chest for reasons I have yet to explain. However, this is not the element of this evening I do not understand. It is Father's attitude following patrol duties I fail to grasp. Normally so quick to jump down my throat for needless error and chastise me for such behavior – as a good father should – tonight he has only advised me to improve my efforts for the next patrol. There were no admonishments, no faces of disappointment or disgust and no lecture. He even lost his mind and smiled at me afterwards in something akin to pride. He assured me next time I would perform better. It was bewildering and left me feeling empty. Strangely I find the only I hate more than being reprimanded by him, is not being scolded when I deserve such scorn. So I elect to punish myself.

I have been running drills and manoeuvres in the cave for almost two hours without pause. Normally I am as perfect in practice as I am on the streets. This time I am as bad in practice as I was on the streets this evening. That stupid girl and her bosom keep distracting me at key moments. Whenever I am about to deliver an inch-perfect heel kick to a mannequin's face, I see her pouting at me. I hit it left of centre instead. Were it a perpetrator, I would crack his orbital socket and possibly his nose. While this is of no concern to me, my father would not like it and label it as reckless. The same startling effect occurs when I perform a handspring followed by a standard three-punch combination. The first blow is perfect, as is the second. The third is right of the target, extreme right. My shoulder moves too early. It is because I see her hands pressed against her chest. When I fail yet another simple eight-phase combat drill, I shriek in frustration.

I deliver a side kick that sends the mannequin and two others skittering across the cave floor. I stand still and attempt to push the images from my head by means of meditation. After two minutes of concentration, the images are still in place. The only thing I have achieved is enough clock spring pressure in my groin to permit elevation. Its new state is clearly visible through my training clothes, their damp and form-hugging characteristics not helping at all. I roll my eyes when I feel it straining against the Lycra. Puberty. I look down at it in distaste. This is puberty. Carnal thoughts are ruining my battle rhythms. And their arrival is early. I try to will it to go away with memories of Todd shooting me, bathroom troubles when I was confined to a wheelchair and discovering Mother controlled me with a chip in my spine. It does not want to go it seems. I roll my eyes again.

"Damian?"

I tense up. Father is calling me from across the cave. I did not hear him enter. I desperately try to tame my groin's parlor trick as footfalls advance in my direction. It does not wish to depart. It appears ready and willing to ruin my life. The footfalls are so close that he can only be a few feet away. Then they stop. I hear him clear his throat. He wants me to face him. The pressure refuses to dissipate. I do not wish to defy him, but unless such unwelcome guests have become socially acceptable to display I must not turn.

"Forgive my rudeness, Father. At present, certain…factors prevent me from facing you." I say, feeling my face begin to flush. He muses on my answer.

"Hnn. Are these…factors perhaps related to Ms. Gilt and your current attire?" He inquires with a perception I am beginning to privately hate. He already knows my predicament, has already formed images in his mind relating to it and is probably smiling in amusement as a consequence. The heat of my face is overwhelming. I nod my head. I hear him draw directly behind me. I cannot help my hands from instinctively trying to cover my shame. A moment later a towel is dangled in front of my face.

"In that case, this might help us talk face-to-face whilst we wait for your…factors to correct themselves."

"Please don't look, Father." I say without moving my hands to reach for the solution. A large hand pats me on the shoulder.

"I promise I won't, son." He assures me, "I am looking away." I snatch the towel and fasten it around my waist. Fortunately, it is too thick for anything to show through. I turn around to face him. He is still looking elsewhere. I feel my face cool slightly. He has not seen it. Nothing can be seen now. I still feel the pressure though. I clear my throat. He looks from his distant point to my face. "May I speak to you now?" He asks. I nod and gesture to the bench some ten feet away.

"Please do, Father."

We sit, but my position is made awkward by the pressure in my shorts and the uncomfortable way the fabric is restraining it. My discomfort must show on my face as my father suggests I make use of the shower facilities and change into different clothing. I shake my head. "Just tell me what you wish me to hear and I will shower and change in the privacy of my own room."

"Very well. I am aware that your recent poor form is not your fault, but likely due to hormonal changes. That is why I have not admonished you for your mistakes. However, that does not mean you must inflict punishment on yourself instead. I disapprove of you overcompensating for faults by such brutal measures. Have you even had water since you began?"

"No Father."

"You are an eleven-year-old boy, Damian, not some species of camel."

"Actually Father, the idea that camels store water in their humps is-"

"I am aware of this falsehood, son. I was merely pointing out your body needs constant water if you are in engage in such high physical activity. I do not wish you to succumb to heat illness." He tells me whilst offering a fresh bottle of water from the side of the bench. I incline my head and take it.

"Yes Father. Is that all you wish to say?" I ask sipping from the bottle and hoping he will leave me. The pressure has finally eased.

"No. I wish to know why you have yet to call Ms. Gilt for a follow-up." The mention of her name is enough to turn the pressure back up until it is painful. "It has been over a week since the gala and you have yet to call her." I cannot stand this ridiculous situation any longer. I punch myself in the groin and double-over in fresh agony. The pressure is forgotten as I slump to the floor and endure the new pain as it floods my nervous system. I hear him stand up. Perhaps he has seen enough to leave me to my own devices. No footfalls follow his decision to stand. Suddenly I feel his hand on my forehead.

My screwed eyes open to find him lying opposite me on the floor, his arm propping up his head. He is smiling in sympathy. I hate it. "I must admit to have never seen such a solution occur to Dick when he endured similar troubles. Will you be requiring ice?" I grimace in answering him.

"No Father. I just need it to go away."

"Well, punching it is not helpful. Why not take your mind off it?" He suggests with stupidity I can scarcely believe.

"How can I possibly do that now?"

"Tell me about Amber. You have offered nothing beyond her name. I'm curious what kind of person could have reduced you to such desperation." He suggests. I roll my eyes back in my head until I am gazing at the ceiling. I sigh.

"Can't you see I'm embarrassed enough?"

"Would you rather I get Alfred to-"

"No! No Father…please don't." I am now utterly humiliated. My tone was as close to pleading as I have ever come in my life. And not only has my father heard it, he has seen it in my eyes. I cannot look at him. Despite my horror at this situation, I am relieved to discover the pressure has abated to nothing. It has apparently fallen in line with my ego and pride in shrinking back. "It's gone now." I inform him casting the towel to one side as proof of its absence, "It's gone."

"But surely as soon as I utter her name again, it will return. How will you cope with such a disability? Will you always wear a towel from now on?" He inquires facetiously. Why is he only jovial when I am in pain or embarrassed? Is my weakness really such a source of entertainment for him? With my physical handicap no longer an issue for the moment, I am able to glare at him. He ruffles my hair. It again feels an inappropriate gesture given the circumstances. "I apologize, son. I did not mean to upset you. I just want a more permanent solution that does not involve hitting yourself. You may wish for children of your own one day."

"Not if this is what I have to look forward to."

"Amber Gilt." My father says. I hurriedly cover my groin in anticipation of another uprising. Nothing happens. I frown at the old man. He shakes his head. "All of this is perfectly normal, Damian. Your adolescence is not something you can control or master like a skill or strike. You must just do your best. It is unpredictable and therefore impossible to accurately chart."

"Then I can't meet her, Father. I will not risk the chance of further embarrassments occurring without warning." I say resolutely whilst sitting up. My father sits up too. He looks disappointed in my choice.

"That is defeatist. It is an attitude that does not suit you, boy."

"But I like her, Father. I mean I actually wish to spend more time in her company. How is that possible with this-"

"Consider this Damian: you have fought all manner of monsters and ghouls over your life. You have achieved feats that no other boy on this planet can claim and made choices other children your age cannot understand. Are you really going to deny yourself Ms. Gilt's friendship…over an erection?" I stare at him in bewilderment, unable to quite believe he has just articulated the word as if commonly discussed.

"How can you say it so casually?" I ask. He smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Do you believe you're the only boy to ever suffer an unwanted erection? I can say it that casually because I've suffered them too. Every man in the world has. Because we were all your age once. Such things are inevitable and part of growing-up. You will be fine, I promise."

"How can you promise such an impossible thing?" I scoff. His hand squeezes the flesh of my shoulder.

"Because I am _your_ father. We share more in common than just blood. I was an angry eleven-year-old grappling with the early onset of adolescence too. Alfred tried to help but I wanted my father. Of course by that time he was not there, neither of my parents were. At times, I felt completely alone and scared of changes I did not want or understand. But, even without my father, I made it through puberty in one piece. And if I can make it, you definitely can. Not just because you are my son, but because I am here with you." I have misjudged the old man. I forget his past easily, discounting his sadness because of wealth and prestige. I am glad he is here. There is no-one else I would rather give me counsel than him.

"I suppose I could call her." I say with a shrug, "perhaps she would enjoy some gymnastics training, or we could play more games. She is very fond of the latter, Father." I add. He nods in agreement.

"Invite her here if you wish. I could have Alfred pick her up."

"I don't think she would like too much pageantry, Father. For a girl, I find her unusually pragmatic." I offer. He squeezes my shoulder again.

"You will never know unless you call her. So?"

"I will call her, Father." I decide, shrugging his hand off and getting to my feet. "Please excuse me." I turn around and begin to walk towards the stairs.

"Damian?"

"Yes, Father?"

He throws the towel at me and I catch it in one hand. He smiles at me. "Just in case."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: See how you like this. Damian goes over to Amber's house where he is initiated into her family by an impromptu wrestling tournament in the backyard. Damian Wayne versus the Gilts! Who will emerge champion? Enjoy.**

 **Peer Pressure**

When Amber Gilt suggested I meet with her at her home in West Gotham, I was wary. It seemed to suggest I would be forced into making her parents' acquaintance and that of her brothers. She told me over the phone that none of them bite, as if I harboured such offensive views on the middle class. So I agreed, despite my hatred of small talk and idle chatter. Alfred dropped me off at midday, some two days after the incident in the cave. I instructed him to return at four. Then he left me alone with…normal people, a loose term at best considering my introduction to them.

As I was about to knock on the front door, an imitation colonial design with peeling paint, the girl greeted me from the side of the house. For reasons I could not begin to fathom, she was dressed in nothing but a bra and some very revealing shorts. She dragged me around the side of the house and into her large backyard where four boys in nothing but their underwear appeared lined up to meet me. For almost a minute I was convinced I had either ingested some hallucinogenic substance at breakfast or was dreaming the whole situation. Now she's talking at me and I have yet to hear a single word.

"I thought I was having lunch with your family." I say to interrupt her rhetoric. She frowns at me.

"Haven't you heard a word I've been saying?"

"I was distracted by the fact everybody is largely unclothed. Are you in the midst of some pagan ritual?"

"We're playing WWE, dumbass." One of the boys says abruptly. He appears to be my age and is quite well-built. I have no frame of reference for that acronym. I look at Amber and frown.

"What is WWE?"

"You're eleven and you've never heard of WWE?" Another boy asks in incredulity of my apparent ignorance of their customs. He is stood to the far left and looks to be an identical twin to the previous boy. I look back at the girl for some kind of guidance for their hostility. She smiles sympathetically.

"It's wrestling, Damian. Y'know, the kind they do in a ring but it's all scripted and over-the-top?" I may have vaguely stumbled across such an absurd concept as fake combat when scanning through the satellite television once. The combatants were both too large and too slow to make their choreography believable. I pitied them and their humiliating outfits, a pair of child's speedos and boots. I nod my head in understanding.

"Do you have a ring for your…bouts?" I inquire turning to the four boys. The smallest and youngest of them, somewhere around nine but none too shy, nods before rushing forward and taking me by the hand.

"Yeah! Come see!"

I am led to an inflated ring that looks to be constructed out of rubber and tough durable plastic. It is being fed a constant supply of air by a mechanical unit connected at the base. The outside area around the ring is heavily matted and curiously has an array of objects strewn around it, including folded chairs, baseball bats and what appears to be some kind of championship belt. I frown at the soft nature of the structure and contrast it with the dangerous implements. The youngest boy proceeds to wriggle through the imitation ropes before bouncing up and down in the centre of the ring. His expression suggests he is having fun.

"Don't bounce too high, Mattie!" The girl calls from my side. This only seems to encourage him as he propels himself higher, giggling now. A split second later he has lost control and is heading out the ring. I catch him in my arms handily after taking one long stride to his location. The boy frowns at me.

"How'd you do that?" He asks as I set him on the ground.

"I have done such things many times before." I inform him as his brothers close ranks on me. They all look impressed. The oldest of them, somewhere around fourteen nods at me.

"Amber said you were different than the other rich boys. You probably just saved this idiot another round of stitches." He says playfully shaking Mattie by his shoulders. Mattie giggles and nods in agreement. "I've got a lot of stitches."

I listen this time as I am introduced to them. The oldest is Kyle, the youngest is Matthew, or Mattie, and the twins are Ralph and Jack. They all have dark brown hair and the same green eyes as Amber. Judging from their tanned skin and general athletic condition of their bodies, they spend a lot of time outdoors engaged in some physical activity or other. I am told Ralph is distinguishable from Jack by the appendix scar on his stomach. By this logic, Ralph is the one who called me a dumbass. Amber informs me lunch will not be served for at least another hour. Until then, I am to participate in their ultimate tournament for the Gilt Heavyweight Championship of the World. I do not know whether this is an honour or not.

"So, just to clarify Damian, this is NOT a real fight." The girl tells me sternly. "Don't hurt any of my brothers. Just have fun. Like that." She points to a bout between Ralph and Jack. The two boys are tackling each other inside the ring, pretending to hit each other with punches and kicks before performing suplexes and attempting to pin one another. Kyle counts to two before they inevitably stage a recovery. Somehow, I find this more engaging than the television. The participants are quite skilled even for adults. "If they hit you with their finisher," Amber continues as Jack is placed in a headlock and drilled into the floor of the ring, "like that, you're allowed to kick out but you have to act groggy afterwards. If they hit you with it twice, you have to let them pin you." I watch in fascination as Jack kicks out but proceeds to stumble around the ring akin to a wino.

Ralph drills him into the floor again and again covers him for a pin. This time, Kyle counts to three. Mattie imitates a bell and Ralph raises his arms in the air. He scales one of the turnbuckles and points at me. "I want you, Damian! I want to fight you!" Even my father does not wish to spar with me in the cave. It is a novelty to be sought for a contest. I look at Amber who smiles.

"Ralph's the number one contender for Kyle's title. If you beat him, you can go into the title match."

"I thought this was a tournament."

"It is. Right now, Ralph's in the semi-finals. Kyle going to fight Mattie and then Jack'll fight the loser of that match for a chance to reach the semi-finals. You know who that leaves to fight for the privilege of facing Ralph in the semis?" I have deduced the identities of the final pair of combatants. My humiliation in the cave comes flooding back as I speak.

"I am to fight you for a chance at your brother?"

"That's right. And I won't go easy on you either. Before Kyle got his growth spurt, I was the champion for a few months." I am told with understandable pride at the accolade. For a woman to best a family of men is a notable achievement. I glance at my still fully-clothed body.

"Am I to-"

"Strip to your skivvies? Hell yes. If I can do, you definitely can."

My choice of undergarment is met with looks of surprise. "You still wear briefs?" Jack says bending down to scrutinize my black underwear. I was not aware such trivialities were matters of contention amongst my peers. I frown at them.

"Is this incorrect?" I ask having noticed all four boys are wearing woven boxer shorts. Kyle shakes his head.

"Nah, it's just sometimes guys find they need more room down there when things start grow-"

"That's enough of that, Kyle!" Amber says in obvious disgust of the direction of conversation, "Remember there's a lady present!" Kyle raises his hands in apology. We head for the ring. As Amber bends over to step through the ropes, I find myself swallowing hard. "Want some advice?" Kyle asks close to my ear. I nod. "Don't get a boner. She really wouldn't like that." I glare at him but only get an amused smile in return. "I'm just kidding. It'll be fine. Go on."

I climb through the ropes and hear Mattie make the sound of a bell being rung. This, I am told, signals the beginning of the contest. I am acutely aware that all of her brothers are watching me closely from the side. I can feel their eyes burning into me. No doubt they are waiting for something embarrassing to befall me. Having watched the previous bout, I am aware of what is expected. I charge forward and pull my punches two inches from her face. After delivering ten or so, I perform a suplex, holding her up in the air for almost five seconds before dropping backwards. We bounce around for a minute, trying to gain our footing on the uneven surface. For the first time I can remember, I am too slow. She pretends to punch me first and I must feign connection. After twenty pulled punches, she instructs me to fall backwards, which I do. Then she mounts me at the waist.

As she wrangles me into a headlock, her breasts press against the bare skin of my chest and then almost my actual face as she adjusts her arm position. I feel a clock spring of pressure invade my groin. To counter it from becoming another fully-blown incident, I aggressively grab hold of her legs and power my way to my feet. I hear her gasp at the display before I jump forward and slam her onto the floor. She willingly lets go and lies flat on her back.

"Climb the turnbuckle!" I hear Ralph shout from the sidelines. I do not know what the purpose of this gesture is, but I do so.

"Do a moonsault!" Mattie yells. I have no idea what such a manoeuvre is or how it is achieved. When this becomes obvious to him, he enlists Kyle to demonstrate the movement. Kyle flips him over backwards from a standing position before bringing him to rest on his stomach. Mattie checks I understand. I nod. A backwards flip to some manner of splash. It is a simple enough movement. I perform it seamlessly, ensuring I do not land directly on her but over her. She feigns pain by stiffening up. I look at her siblings for further direction. They look like goldfish and I am unsure why they are so in awe.

"Cover me." Amber whispers from underneath. "I'm not getting up after that." I do so and hear Kyle count to three and Mattie once more imitate his bell. I have emerged victorious in my first fake fight. It is an oddly satisfying feeling. The pressure in my groin has disappeared as well. There will be no repeat of the cave. I am relieved. I look down at the girl.

"Was that okay?" I inquire. She nods.

"Normally they cheer after a fight. I think it's probably because none of them have ever successfully performed a moonsault. The last time Kyle tried, he bounced right out the other side of the ring."

"So, that was good?"

"It was freaking incredible. But I guess with a body like yours, it's pretty average stuff."

The hour passes quickly. Kyle defeats Mattie but allows him to execute some movements that help prolong the fight past three minutes. Jack then beats Mattie in the loser's match after applying a very good submission hold on his sibling's ankle. Mattie taps out. Now it is apparently my turn to face Ralph in the semi-finals. We grapple on the floor for almost three minutes where I find him to be stronger and more determined than I first anticipated. Still, I am holding back to prevent injuring him. He lands the first series of fake punches and kicks before picking me up with some difficulty and slamming me on the ground. Instead of going for the pin position, he scales a turnbuckle. When he flies off with a big elbow I believe intended for my stomach, I roll out of the way at the last moment. I catch him on the bounce and execute what I know to be his finishing move, drilling him into the floor. An attempted cover is kicked out of. I find I am enjoying myself.

Ralph acts groggy as the rules dictate and I go to execute the manoeuvre again. As I have him in a headlock, he manages to counter by flipping both of us backwards across the ring. We both lie on the floor, convalescing from our perceived efforts before Ralph attempts to cover me. I kick out after one. I then roll him over and lock on an arm bar technique taught to me by Father. However, instead of properly applying pressure, I only offer the slightest twinge of discomfort for him to experience. Ralph hams his role as the oppressed, contorting his face into that of unimaginable pain whilst trying to drag us both to the ropes only a foot away. I am reliably informed that a 'rope break' means I must cease my submission attempt. I let him struggle for almost three minutes before easily yanking him back to the centre and applying noticeable pressure. He taps and Mattie rings his imaginary bell.

"You know what?" Ralph says as he lies on the floor of the ring sucking in air. I lie next to him.

"What?"

"For a dumbass who's never seen WWE, you put on a good show." He informs me with a big smile. I am impressed with his humility. I expected him to be more aggrieved by my victory over him, but like all his siblings he just seems to relish the activity rather than the outcome. I smile back.

"You are a decent showman too…dumbass" I offer. He nods in agreement whilst putting his arms behind his head.

"Yes I am."

I am now in the final. This time, I am joined in the ring by Amber who has put on a striped shirt I understand symbolizes her authority as a referee for the contest. Kyle has Mattie hold his championship belt on the sidelines. Jack and Ralph have gathered up the pile of chairs and baseball bats and stand ready to seemingly throw them into the ring. I am informed by our female referee that this match is an Extreme Rules match. This apparently means weapons are permitted…so long as they are made of foam as I am told both the chairs and bats are. If I get hit by a chair three times in the back of the head, I lose. In real life, I would probably die, but no matter. Mattie rings his bell and Kyle hoists me clean off the ground.

He proceeds to shoulder-press me several times before dropping me to the ground on my stomach. He then calls for a chair. As I am clambering to my feet, he smacks me on the back of my head with the foam chair. I go down. He hits me again. Enough. I roll out of the way and snatch the chair clean out his hands. Before he can react, I clock him in the face with it. He drops to the floor in dramatic fashion. He gets up and I feign driving it into his stomach. He lurches forward as if in pain. I throw the chair aside and proceed to shoulder-press him. I carefully complete a full turn of the ring with Kyle precariously above my head then slam him onto the floor. I elect to try a moonsault to finish proceedings and scale the turnbuckle. As I do so, both Ralph and Jack charge into the ring, followed closely by Mattie.

Between the three of them, they try to drag me off the turnbuckle. Confused by his unsportsmanlike behavior, I hold on to the buckle and thwart their attempts until Amber joins them. After being unceremoniously prised off, the four of them force me to the floor and each hold one of my limbs while Kyle covers me. Although I manage to get Mattie off my right leg, I cannot gain sufficient momentum to escape my predicament. All of them count to three simultaneously. Mattie makes his usual noise and Kyle is declared to still be the champion. I find I am not angry, but completely bemused by the recent chain of events.

"Extreme Rules always means no disqualification in our yard. That means we can do whatever we want." Amber explains as I sit in the centre of the ring surrounded by her and her brothers. I frown.

"To what purpose?"

"So one of us stays champion. We can't have someone not called Gilt holding the Gilt Heavyweight Championship. It just wouldn't be right." She says with a mischievous smile, "no hard feelings, Damian?"

"I probably should be incensed by your trickery." I announce to them as a collective, "but I can admit to having fun. Thank you for including me in your…WWE games."

"I can't believe Kyle got pressed by an eleven-year-old." Jack says shaking his head. "He weighs like a thousand pounds." Kyle claps him lightly round the back of the head.

"Not a thousand, Jackie. More like two thousand." The oldest Gilt corrects him before clapping me on the back. "Seriously though, that was crazy impressive stuff. You could be a professional with that kind of power."

"Yeah and I could be your professional valet." Amber offers. It is a tempting offer, but I do not think I am interested in pursuing this as a career when my father's mantle is only an adolescence away. Still, I would like to do this again. I am about to voice such sentiments aloud when we are called in for lunch. I am eager for more 'fun' as I join them in getting to my feet.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Read and Review. There is a great chance I will want to continue this if it is well-received. Enjoy.**

 **Lunch**

Meals are usually subdued affairs. My father and I normally sit in silence, eating food Alfred has cooked in silence. When we are done, I speak only to ask permission to leave. He speaks only to grant it. That is my interpretation of a civilised meal. As I sit at the head of another family's dining table, flanked by loud voices and too much buffet food to possibly sample in one sitting, I am beginning to question that interpretation. Here the father is also mostly a silent figurehead, occupying the other end of the table. But unlike my own father, Mr Gilt does pass comment on the current topics of conversation at regular intervals. These topics are all engineered by the mother, a comely woman who insists I call her Rosie. Thus far, they all revolve around me. Although novel at first to be the centre of this odd universe, after almost thirty minutes I am beginning to feel like an exhibit rather than a guest.

"I have had enough of your inquiries, Mrs. Gilt. I am not an exhibit in a Victorian freak show. Aside from my father's wealth and the luxury of choice such funds afford us, I am quite ordinary." I tell her bluntly when she asks whether my father has ever bribed someone to secure me something I want but otherwise cannot have. Both she and her husband look perturbed by this reply. Amber, who is seated on my left, does not share her parents' shock. Instead, she smiles at me in a way that suggests she finds my response both amusing and brave. A glance in Kyle's direction seems to confirm he feels similarly.

"Most boys would not dare speak to my Rosie like that, Damian." Mr. Gilt announces after a few moments of silence. His face is grave. It then lightens before breaking out into an amused grin almost identical to that of his eldest children. "We're glad you have a backbone. If there's one thing I hate, it's a spineless coward. Kudos." I manage to incline my head, although I inwardly grimace at the very idea I could be seen as a coward. My father is not in the habit of breeding cowards. I find Amber's father to be a very strange man, a libertine hiding behind the guise of an authoritarian. My father's public persona is the exact opposite. I thought it the same of all fathers. Clearly I have been mistaken on many facets of daily life in the manor constituting an ordinary environment. Still, I prefer boredom to bedlam.

"So, Damian, what do you like to eat?" Mrs. Gilt asks after I assume she sees me picking at the barbequed chicken skewers I have put on my plate. I have eaten enough not to be impolite, but nothing else. They are covered in some sort of sticky glaze I do not like. Extra sugar and empty calories are not conducive to efficiency on the streets. "Does your father have a strict diet for you?" I shake my head.

"No. He believes in sensible eating. I elect to be stringent with my intake for reasons of physical fitness."

"Damian is like seriously shredded, Dad. I mean like…crazy ripped." Kyle informs his father, "Must have a body fat of six percent tops. You know he overhead pressed me? Like a full lock-out and everything." The older boy demonstrates the position by straightening his arms above his head. His father does not look impressed.

"Six percent sounds dangerous for an eleven-year-old. Does your father encourage this kind of extreme dieting, Damian?" Mr Gilt inquires with too much probing for my liking. It is a leading question, but one I can easily diffuse.

"My father would never allow me to pursue anything dangerous. Besides, my body fat is almost eight percent and well within safety parameters for a child of my size and age group." I say before biting into my pedestrian food to demonstrate my lack of reservations.

"What's your dad's?"

"Also within safety parameters for an adult of his size and body mass. I wish to discuss something other than my physique if you please. I find it…superficial." I tell him with a hard stare. It is actually not. Currently, I believe my father's overall body fat is somewhere in the region of five percent. Were he not used to the stresses such a low fat count has on his body, I imagine my father would be very ill. Nevertheless, Mr Gilt holds up a hand of apology, an admirable gesture given his status as head of the household. He is clearly not without humility.

"Marty didn't mean to upset you, Damian." Mrs. Gilt says a moment later, "We're just a little cagey about those sorts of things. After Amber…" She stops herself from saying anymore. I notice her eyes have gone from me to her daughter. Amber is still eating her coleslaw and does not seem phased by the mention of her name. She looks at me and smiles sheepishly.

"My mom doesn't like to embarrass me in front of guests, but when I was eleven I was a little anorexic about my weight." I have no idea what is an appropriate response for this kind of discussion. Perhaps I am meant to assure her such things are in the past or maybe I should complement her strength of character in overcoming mental instability that might have once sent her to a sanatorium. I smile at her.

"Everybody has their demons, Amber." I say in a tone I hope conveys my understanding. I turn to her mother. "However, anorexia is not one of mine."

The meal ends shortly after. Cleaning duties are left to the four boys while Amber and I are excused. She takes me up to her room, a space that is dominated by posters of singers and starlets I have never heard of. We sit on her bed and I wait for her to initiate conversation. "I knew you'd be good at holding your ground, but that was pretty awesome lion taming with my folks." She says with a smirk. "Not even my oldest friends are that strong in the face of questions like those. Kudos."

"My parents taught me to never fear inquisition, merely to understand its importance. It is obvious your parents wish your friends to be a good influence on you and of good character. Although I find them somewhat…brusque in their approach, I understand their concerns." I reply, trying to be diplomatic when her father's accusations of cowardice still sting. She rolls her eyes.

"Come on: you don't really think that. You think my dad's an ass and my mom's a little too nosey for a woman. Admit it."

"I think in this scenario my opinions on your parents are not important." I say turning to look at her. "You have a good family and you are loved by them. It is a position many people in Gotham would envy you for, regardless of their more vulgar traits." I add with the utmost sincerity. Child abuse and neglect is rife in this city. She is fortunate indeed. She stares at me hard.

"Do you envy me for it?"

"No. I am in the same minority as you." I tell her. She frowns, unconvinced.

"Your dad seems like he's a little demanding of you."

"He is. I prefer it that way. It makes me strive for more. I am grateful for his lack of complacency." I say. Her frown alters to one of confusion.

"Do you love him?"

I frown now. "What?"

"Most people when they talk about their parents and they have a good relationship with them always say they love them. You've never said that about your old man. You say you're grateful and you're thankful, appreciative and fortunate to have him, but you've never said 'love'. Is it hard for you to say?" She inquires before almost casually beginning to run her hand through my hair. The gesture is odd coming from a female who is not my mother. It feels alien, but strangely pleasant. Like Alfred's squeezing of my neck, it soothes me into answering despite how uncomfortable I am articulating my answer.

"Yes."

"Why?" She continues stroking through my hair. Her voice is probing but patient. It tells me I should not be afraid to offer more. I sigh.

"I don't know. My mother told me to express such a sentiment aloud was to display vulnerability to your enemies and offer them a point to attack. I never expressed such a convention to her either." She does not ask what kind of education my mother furnished me with from the cradle that included the stratagem of war. I am grateful. She merely tells me her opinion.

"That's sad, Dami. You should tell him that you love him."

"I am certain he knows of my affection for him."

"Yeah, probably, but parents like to hear it anyway. It makes them feel important, especially when you're growing older. If you don't, sometimes they drift further away from you." She suggests. I cannot help but scoff.

"My father would never react in such a womanly fashion if I continued to keep my feelings to myself. He would understand. He always understands me. That is why I do not envy you or your family, Amber. Many people misinterpret what I say or the way I act. They think me rude or antisocial, but not my father. He never shirks taking me to a civic function if I wish to attend or hides me whilst there. He is always proud to introduce me as his son. Always. For many in his position such parading of their offspring is a show to garner favour with other social elitists and nothing more. But not for him. He means every word he says regarding my character and my intelligence. He never wishes for me to meld into the shadows when in front of company. He wishes me to participate and make my opinions heard. That is why I…" I find myself faltering. I have told her in thirty seconds more of my feelings on him than I have revealed to anyone else in my life. To hear myself speak of him like this is terrifying, but also very liberating. She prompts me when I do not finish my sentence, still combing through my hair.

"Yes?"

"That's why I love him. Because despite all my failings as a model child, he loves me unconditionally. It is very rare to find a man like that, especially with his position and status. Impossible even. But he has always been an impossible man, a contradiction of expectation."

"You see now I understand why you're different from the other boys at that party. Your dad's a real catch, huh?"

"Like a white whale." I say. Her hand leaves my hair. I consider. "I also have brothers…of a sort. Would you care to—"

"I'd love to hear about them! Older, right?"

"How did you?"

"You play dumb, but you've wrestled before. The kind of scars you have only come from doing stupid stuff with older boys on a regular basis. So…tell me about them: what are their names?"

"Oldest one is Richard, but everyone calls him Dick…"

I leave the Gilt residence later than expected, around four. I talked about Dick, Drake and Jason at length, whilst obviously omitting several details. It was again a liberating experience that she was very interested in sharing with me. Her words about my father still resonate the deepest though. Her descriptions of him were less than poetic, but had a certain powerful simplicity I greatly admired. That is why as soon as I arrive back at the manor shortly before five, I immediately seek him out. I find him in the gymnasium, Olympic-lifting weights in excess of four-hundred pounds using a clean and split-step technique to finish the lockout. His dress of a vest and shorts serves to showcase his dense and muscular physique, a specimen that harks back to Grecian ideals of perfection. Sometimes it is incredible to think I share the same genes as him. He makes the exercise seem effortless such is his form and speed. I watch him complete five repetitions in less than ninety seconds before he stops and directs his attentions onto my presence.

"Good afternoon, Son. Did you enjoy your time at Ms Gilt's house?"

"Yes Father, very much."

"And might you be seeing her again?"

"I hope to meet her in the city next week."

"Excellent. Alfred says dinner will be ready in an hour. Will you be attending?"

"Yes."

He thanks me for my choice and turns back to his weights, but pauses when realising I am still standing in the gymnasium. He turns back to face me. "Is there something else you wish to discuss?"

"There is something I wish to tell you, Father. It does not regard courtship of Amber. It is something regarding our relationship." I say, aware my voice is trembling slightly as I prepare to speak further. He closes the distance between us until he is only a foot or so away. I do not believe he is even sweating as he awaits my statement.

"What is it?"

"I wish you to know…"

"Yes?"

"That I…" I feel my throat going dry and almost turn to leave. I take a step only for his hand to stop my progress. He comes down on one knee and his face offers nothing but patience…like Amber's earlier. I realise now how alike the two of them are in temperament. Neither wishes me to withdraw into myself. They always want to know more. His next words and the odd softness with which he utters them says as much.

"Please continue, Son."

"I love you. Very much. I love you very much Father." I say after several false starts. He raises his eyebrows slightly, but not so much as to make me feel awkward. Even if it is imperceptible to most people, I can see my admission means a great deal to him. It pleases me to no end to see such sentiment flicker briefly in his usually stoic eyes. Then he smiles and nods in appreciation. His hand squeezes my shoulder.

"Thank you for that Damian. I love you too." He rises back to his feet after clapping me on the shoulder to further demonstrate his gratitude. He does not expect an embrace or anything more from me and returns to his weights in silence. "I wish to know everything of your time at the Gilts' house during dinner. I will see you shortly." I believe I was mistaken. My father's body fat percentage is higher than five percent, closer to seven or eight if I am correct. I decide on seven.

"Yes Father. Thank you for listening."

"Anytime, Son." He says with his back to me before again seamlessly hoisting the bar to his shoulder. Amber is right: my dad is awesome. I turn and leave without another word.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: More.**

 **Progress**

Amber and I are skating through Gotham Central Park. It is a hospitable day for such a physical activity, although her insistence we hold hands and navigate the park in tandem makes it more difficult. She is not unskilled at the discipline, but is remarkably slow. In the time it has taken us to perform one loop, I could have easily managed four at my usual speed. Still, Alfred has advised me to appease her since it is the gentlemanly thing to do. So I am doing so, barely. Mercifully, she stops when we reach the next available bench. We sit and watch other patrons cycle and waddle their way past us. Then she speaks.

"So, I'm guessing I'm your first girlfriend then?" I look at her in bewilderment.

"Girlfriend? Do you believe us to be courting one another in such a fashion?" Her reaction of frowning at me suggests displeasure.

"What did you think this was?"

"I thought we were simply friends. When did this turn into something more…romantic?" I do not believe such a word has ever willingly passed my lips. Even now, I am loathe to express such drivel aloud. She raises her eyebrows in surprise, leaving me more bewildered. I cannot imagine what passes through her mind from one moment to the next: the lack of predictable behaviour baffles me.

"Like three or four dates ago? You have noticed we're holding hands a lot more and always kiss each other goodbye, right?"

"I thought you merely suffered from acute vertigo and needed constant support. Aren't I too young for you?"

"The difference is less than eighteen months and, for an eleven-year-old, you're really mature…and sweet."

"But I do not even attend your school."

"If you went to Bristol, I'd probably never talk to you. There's just too much pressure to ignore you in a place like that. Here, we can just be honest…and ourselves. If you don't want to be my boyfriend…"

"I'm not sexually experienced…"

"Oh, and I am? Jeez, relationships aren't all about sex, Damian. At our age, they're really not supposed to be. That all comes later. Sometimes a lot later. So do you want the gig or not?" I am unsure how to articulate a response to such an ultimatum. This territory is all so alien to me. Still, I try to say something.

"I…I never thought…a girl would ask me to be her partner…"

"Boyfriend, Dami, boyfriend's the word. And of course I'd ask you: you're a great guy. Smart and witty and cute…with a kickass body to boot. Heh, I made it rhyme too. That means we should at least try it for a while."

"I fear I would only disappoint you, Amber. Sexual inexperience notwithstanding, I am still somewhat lacking when it comes to the emotions of others."

"Do you want me to make this into a challenge? Would giving you a goal help? Like, I dare you to go out with me for a month. If you don't stick it out, you have to sing in your underwear in front of parents while we're having lunch. If you do manage the month, I'll sing in my underwear for you. Does that help?" I never take the threat of humiliation lightly, no matter the source or the cause. I am not losing such a contest, particularly with a prize like that. My bewilderment at the situation subsides with the introduction of familiar ground. If I only need to be her…boyfriend for a month to earn such an accolade, I can do so. I nod my head.

"Actually, yes. We have a wager. One month." I say offering my hand. She rolls her eyes and grins.

"In this century we call it a bet, but sure…" She shakes my hand, "game on."

When I return home, I seek out my father for advice. I find him in his study upstairs, perusing some financial report or other and making handwritten notes in the columns. For a billionaire, his attention to detail with regards to his company is admirable. He looks up when I enter the room, frowning slightly.

"We agreed you would knock before entering my father's study, son." His persistence on protocol is grating. However, I am willing to apologise if it means obtaining counsel. I incline my head.

"I am sorry, Father. I have an announcement to make." The old man's reaction of putting his documents to one side so all his focus is on me is somewhat daunting. But I am Damian Wayne and I push forward. "I have a girlfriend, Father. Amber is…now my girlfriend." Father smiles in lieu of a verbal response. He nods his head and brings his hands together on the desktop.

"That's wonderful, son. Have you told Alfred?"

"No. I have a question."

"Yes?" He invites me to take a seat in front of the desk. I do so reluctantly.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"In terms of moving forward?"

"Yes. How should I proceed now we are…an item, I believe the expression is here."

"In my experience the general practice is to continue as before. Romantic relationships naturally mature into deeper attachments as they progress. Try not to feel pressured into more intimate behaviour now you have the label of being a couple. Often such actions only end in disappointment or a breakdown in the relationship itself." He says, speaking from a point of obvious experience in the field I can only imagine. My curiosity is piqued.

"How many women have you dated, Father?"

"Numbers are unimportant. Just know that I speak from experience, both good and bad, and that I want what's best for you." He mulls on something briefly. "Embrace what you have with her now. Don't savour it only when it's too late." He offers with an ominous tone I feel is unwarranted. I clear my throat.

"We are not planning to marry, Father. She is just my girlfriend…for the time being." I state in clear terms for him. He holds up a hand in apology.

"Yes perhaps I was somewhat…strong in my sentiment just now. It's just that I…have often found myself lamenting things that should not have been left unsaid…at the end." I have the distinct impression he is not simply speaking of romantic entanglements: he is talking of all his relationships. I understand his concerns. I am his son: I would not want the same…oversights to cost me similar misfortunes. Still, that is for the future. I am eleven, not old like him or desiccated like Alfred.

"Can we agree that my problems and yours differ, Father? You may have difficulty maintaining relationships, but you can always salvage them, no matter the damage. However my problem is less than earthshattering. But I appreciate your advice. May I be excused?" I say. He gestures to the door.

"At your leisure." He has returned to his financial reports before I have exited the room. I linger at the door for a minute and watch him. He continues with his work for a few moments and then realises I am still here. He looks at me with a frown. "Is everything alright, Son?"

"You said I could leave at my leisure, Father. Is this too relaxed a pace for you?"

"No. You are just not known to linger when you have things to accomplish."

"I don't like when you adopt a morose attitude…and are alone. It…worries me." Father's eyebrows raise in more than mild surprise following this. It is evident he did not expect concern from me regarding his mental health. It is something of a surprise to myself, one of many I am finding in the past few weeks: until now, I considered his mental state akin to a block of granite.

"I'm not alone or morose, Son, merely factual in what I said to you. But I appreciate your concern." He says. I believe I just experienced what is known colloquially as having 'chills' up and down my spine. We are more alike than I thought. "Until later, Damian." He says after a few moments of awkward silence between us.

"Until later, Father."

I am back at the Gilt household and once again embroiled in backyard wrestling politics. This afternoon finds me in a handicap match against both Jack and Ralph. Some sort of progressive thinking as taken place during my absence from the ring. Instead of cavorting around in our underwear like druids or drunks, everyone now sports athletic gear and is employing 'characters' instead of simply playing themselves. This time I am not ignorant of why they are doing this.

In preparation for another bout of this 'pretend-fighting' I have researched several WWE broadcasts on the television over the fortnight to broaden my understanding of the craft. Alfred habitually conducts double-takes when walking past and discovering me watching matches, presumably because he cannot believe I am entertained by something so inane. As much as it pains me, I do find a certain limited appeal to the spectacle of professional wrestling, specifically its lack of realistic violence. How you can emerge victorious in battle without hurting someone is astonishing.

While the characters on the broadcast are painted with generously broad strokes but grounded in reality, Jack and Ralph's efforts are not. Jack is a dragon. Ralph is a robot from the distant future. And these are meant to be my peers. In absence of no better word to describe the potential of fighting a fire-breathing beast and advanced android – apparently capable of firing lasers – in this inflatable ring, they are creative. Amber, now playing the role of one of the Sith from some space soap opera she enjoys so much…star-something-or-other, stands on the outside with a black bath towel over her head. Kyle has allegedly absconded to a friend's house for the weekend. I almost wish I had joined him at this point.

"Are we going to start timekeeper?" I ask Mattie who is wearing a tiger onesie and leaning on the apron. He shakes his head.

"Nope."

"Why?"

"We can't start until you're announced like Bowser and the T-1000." The youngest Gilt informs me with an air of indignation at my perceived rudeness. I frown and shrug.

"So announce me."

"What's your character name?"

"The same as it always is." I say whilst turning towards my opposition, "Robin." Ralph scoffs at this choice.

"Robin can't beat Bowser _and_ a T-1000, dumbass. He's only a little kid in a mask."

"Yeah. He kind of, doesn't stand a chance without superpowers." Jack says agreeing with his twin. He seems to be the more intellectual of the two, although their physiques are both athletic.

"He's taken down Killer Croc before." Amber offers in defence of my character choice. Ralph is quick to scoff again.

"Only with Batman holding his hand." I am beginning to grow annoyed with his dismissal of my skills. The event they are referring to, the apprehension of that reptilian circus freak, was a joint effort between Father and myself. And he has never held my hand. Never. But I know I cannot become too heated about this issue. It will only arouse suspicion. So I grit my teeth and try a different tact.

"If that is the case, perhaps one of you can recommend a suitable opponent to battle such powerful creatures." I respond, drawing closer to the pair. Jack looks over at Ralph after only a split second of thought.

"Mario?" He says only for his brother to sneer.

"Against a T-1000? He'd be destroyed."

"Not if he was Super Mario or had a fire flower."

"Nah, then he'd be too big. He could be Sonic."

"Sonic against a T-1000? And you thought my idea was dumb?"

This debate is clearly going nowhere. And if this is the kind of conversation that dominates playgrounds at recess, I am very glad not to attend public school. I have no interest in video games or science-fiction dreck. Even if the things they are arguing over actually existed, there is little chance they would be able to best me and Father in serious combat. I roll my eyes.

"Let him be Robin!" Amber calls from the side-lines, "It's not any stupider than Bowser and a freaking terminator teaming up in a wrestling ring." This criticism visibly stings the pair. Ralph pouts whilst folding his arms.

"Fine. You can be Robin."

Amidst fire breath and wayward lasers, I first succeed in grounding both of them face down, courtesy of Judo and Jujitsu grappling techniques. Following this, I hold Jack with my knees in the small of his back whilst flipping Ralph and pinning his shoulders to the floor with a technique wrestlers call a 'baseball slide'. Mattie, acting as referee today as well as everything else, counts the fall and sounds the bell to end the contest in under four minutes.

"Hah, Robin just paddled your butts!" Mattie laughs as I release and move back from the twins. Jack and Ralph do not seem to want to look at one another. Their teamwork was very poor. Even if it were the opposite, I would still have won handily. Jack reaches over and taps Ralph on the shoulder as they continue sprawling on the floor. Ralph barely raises his head to look at him in reply. His expression is one of disgust and is solely directed at his twin brother. He clearly believes Jack is to blame for their joint defeat. Instead of offering withering contempt in reply, I am perplexed as Jack grins at him in amusement.

"Think I'd be faster without it?" Jack asks him whilst clutching the right side of his abdomen, roughly where his appendix is located. Ralph's expression morphs from disdain to the same amused grin as his counterpart.

"Well obviously. You run like you've swallowed a brick." Ralph retorts, prompting Jack to laugh. Soon both of them are laughing at some mental image or other.

I lean down to speak to Amber at ringside. "When did Ralph have his appendix removed?" I ask in a confidential whisper. She offers a grimace before a verbal reply.

"When it exploded. He was eight and he barely survived." The Gilt household two years ago does not sound like a particularly inviting place. Between her anorexia and a burst appendix I do not envy her parents. I look back to Ralph still giggling on the floor with Jack and consider.

"Is that why he's so…abrasive?"

"Believe or not, 'dumbass' to him is a term of affection. If he really thinks you're stupid, he'd literally say 'stupid-ass' instead." Amber informs me before sighing. "He's still pretty sensitive about it though. So he's always trying to prove how tough he is. And if anything goes wrong, he likes to blame Jack which is funny. Isn't that kind of what you do with Tim?"

"Tim is a literal moron." I say swiftly. She laughs.

"No offence, Dami, but most boys are literal morons. It's kind of cute how you all think you're different from the boy next to you. Jack gets it. That's why he can defuse Ralph, even if he gets really pissed off. You know what?" She says pulling the bath towel off her head, "Enough wrestling for the minute. Let's go watch a movie."

"Should I tell your brothers?"

"Nah. We've done the family interaction thing. Now it's time for the boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Just remember the bet and you'll be fine."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Bonding time between father and son.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Puberty 7**

I am finding Amber's presence to be having an unusual effect on me. Oddly, it is not the physical manifestations of adolescent lust I experienced before. I am discovering that, the more time I spend with her and her family, the deeper the desire grows to be with my father. We have never had an overly affectionate relationship in the way I have with Amber or she has with her own father. We do not hug often. Normally the world must be ablaze or both of us driven beyond breaking point to provoke any kind of tactile embrace. I used to be satisfied with this. My father is the man I have always aspired to be. He is a warrior, unconcerned with such trivialities as sentiment or vulnerabilities in combat. He is highly intelligent, analytical and critical in nature and thought, with no external weakness to exploit. He chides me when I fall below standards and ruthless in training. He demands perfection of me at home, in the gymnasium and on the streets. He makes no allowances for my age or size. I am expected to perform as his equal in the heat of battle and pull my weight. He commands respect and admiration without explicitly asking for it. He is, in short, the ultimate man. Now, that is no longer sufficient. I want more.

It is late in the evening, somewhere around nine-thirty. Father is not patrolling tonight and retired to his bedroom shortly after dinner. I have spoken at length with Amber on the phone, arranging to meet at the aquarium tomorrow afternoon. There is an exhibit she wishes to visit that is meant to be 'cool' in some fashion or other. I have no interest in such frivolities. I agree to go to honour our mutual arrangement. The bet is nearly over. In just thirteen days, I will emerge victorious and she will sing in her underwear, a performance I am very looking forward to. In the meantime, I am playing the role of 'boyfriend' to a fair standard, something even she agrees with. She is not shy with feedback herself. It is yet another parallel between her and Father. After finally hanging up following what seemed like an ice-age of banal conversation and logistical planning, I seek out my father.

I knock on his door once I am attired for bed.

"Enter."

I wander in to find him sat upright in bed reading a small paperback by lamplight. He regards me with a vacant expression.

"Yes, Damian?" His tone does not indicate his mood. It is a marvellous advantage from a tactical standpoint, one I strive to emulate. I clear my throat.

"I was wondering. Might I read with you, Father?" His eyebrows raise slightly.

"Do you have a book, Son?"

"I thought…I thought I might…read what you were reading, Father. Unless this is a solitary pursuit and I am disturbing you." I still find the act of asking for attention through thinly-veiled statements too close to begging. Just uttering this request and retraction leaves me feeling both bitter and contemptuous. I do not wish to appear weak in front of him, and certainly not needy. He shakes his head.

"You are not disturbing me, Son. I just do not know whether my reading matter will be to your liking." He replies before shrugging his shoulders, "However, I think you should judge that for yourself. Please." He beckons me over to the bed and throws back the duvet. He has opened his legs to create a space for me to sit. I warily manoeuvre into position so my back is resting against his chest and my legs sit flanked by his. I am not used to such intimacy with him and it bemuses me somewhat as the duvet is replaced over us. His arms stretch forward either side of my head and splay the book's current pages open for both of us to read. I quickly realise it is poetry, a medium I despise. It serves no useful purpose and cannot possibly compare to the visual or aural arts of Caravaggio's paintings or Chopin's Nocturnes. It is the arrangement of words on a page with the loosest possible structure, where meaning is open to vast and often fantastical interpretation. It is, in short, lazy art, and all the worse for it. "I can already tell you are having second thoughts." Father says with a trace of disappointment. I do not like the way it sounds, particularly after I have sacrificed my pride to to sit with him in this undignified manner.

"There must be some value in this if you read it, Father. I can be…open-minded." I respond despite knowing Mother's education decried anything that stood apart from war and strategy. I had to break such indoctrination practices in order to enjoy both Caravaggio and Chopin's works. It proved difficult for me to see the beauty in anything that did not advance a military campaign or destroy an enemy's resistance, but I managed. This will undoubtedly pose a greater challenge, since I now appreciate the arts and yet still find no beauty in poetry, but I will manage. If recent experiences have taught me anything, I am nothing if not adaptable.

"So, I understand. Alfred tells me you watch WWE programming at least three times a week now." Even though there is no hint of derision in his voice, I still roll my eyes at the insinuation.

"It is for research purposes only. Amber greatly enjoys it."

"He tells me you watch classic matches as well, some of them taking place long before you were born."

"That is hardly difficult when I was born well inside the twenty-first century, Father."

"May I ask who your favourite wrestler is?"

"I have many and I doubt you know anything about them."

"If you continue to take an interest in the subject, I may learn."

"Unless you are planning to steal Amber from me, I would not waste your time. May we please return to your poetry?" I hear him smirk behind me. I am slightly flustered by his attempts to engage me in the same trite conversation I endure with Amber's brothers every time I visit. I forgive them because they are young. My father is old. Very old. He has no excuses.

"Very well, Son." He says before bringing the book too close to my face. "Take hold of it." I oblige and replace his hands with my own. "Arms up." I am confused by this command.

"Father?"

"Indulge me and raise your arms above your chest." I do so. A moment later, his arms loosely coil themselves around abdomen and gently pull me flush. "You may lower your arms now, Damian." I lower them slowly, slightly bemused by the pleasant nature of this restrictive embrace. I think I like this position. "Begin." He says to confuse me again.

"Begin what?"

"To read aloud."

"That is not what I had…"

"Poetry is an oral tradition, Son. Before the advent of the written word, poets would learn verses by word-of-mouth and many hours of repetition. If you are truly open-minded, this will pose no obstacle." He tells me. I open my mouth and draw breath to begin. The first syllable almost escapes before I think better of the situation.

"I…I would not want to sully your enjoyment of these poems by poor delivery, Father. Perhaps we might simply read…" I am rendered silent by his decision to kiss me on the top of my head. He only does it once, but it is enough.

"You would spoil this for me by not reading aloud. You may not sing, but you still have a wonderful voice, one I do not hear enough of in daily life." His arms squeeze my middle to prompt me into trying again. I emit a deep sigh. I want to please him. I clear my throat.

"Who is the Happy Warrior? Who is he…that every man in arms…should wish to be?"

The poem is long, but surprisingly does not bore me as I presumed. I know my reading is hackneyed and lacks all necessary feeling and commitment to charm a real audience, but I make no mistakes. When I reach its final line, I do not immediately wish to cut my wrists in protest. This is a good sign. My reward for perseverance is another kiss on the scalp. I have already grown to like it in lieu of anything more saccharine: Father knows I abhor 'cuddling'.

"Very good. Did you enjoy that poem, Son?"

"It is…not entirely without merit. Do you consider yourself a happy warrior, Father?" I ask whilst noting the author is a man called William Wordsworth. He sounds English, which is of little surprise. If this entry stems from the eighteenth century as I suspect, they wasted many hours writing poetry instead of defending colonies like real men. He chuckles briefly.

"No, Son. While I can draw many parallels with this man, happiness in combat is definitely not one of them."

"Sometimes I think I am only truly happy when I am fighting something or someone." I tell him honestly. Father is nonplussed.

"You may be American, but I know that is not true. You are happy when you are in Miss Gilt's company, are you not?"

"Yes."

"And I would imagine you are quite happy being here with me too. Fighting may be a way of life for many, but it does not have to be yours. As you are discovering, there are a great many things in life that are just as fulfilling as combat and nowhere near as bruising." He says before squeezing me again. It is strange to still draw breath afterwards: normally anyone holding him in such fashion is attempting to cut off my air supply. However, I understand his point. Being involved with another human being, on a level beyond acquaintances that is not born out of practicality or necessity, is rewarding. Amber has shown me that. And yet certain elements continue to puzzle me. I thumb through the paperback as I speak.

"You did not plan this whole affair, did you, Father? Amber's presence at the gala, it wasn't a plant, was it? She seemed…far too receptive to my insults and manner than I would expect." His hand slowly rises from my waist and presses the book down flat in my lap. Before I can ask what he is doing, I feel his fingers underneath my chin. My head is tilted upward so we may look each other in the eye. He shakes his head.

"No, Son. I did not 'plant' her at the gala. Regardless of your solitary nature, I have no fears you will spend your life alone. While your relationship with her has been unexpected, it clearly shows you do not need to play a role to have one. You are fine just as you are. But I must say I'm glad you're taking it all seriously at your age." I would tell him about the wager if I thought it important. He would not chastise me for making such a deal. I believe he might even find it amusing. "Do you think me capable of such cruel subterfuge as that generally, Son?" He asks as a follow-on when I do not give an immediate reply. I shrug, turning another clutch of pages.

"You are a master strategist."

"Yes, but I have no desire to use those abilities to map out your life for you. You are not here to simply obey my wishes. That would be a mistake." It is not a good entry point into an issue that has plagued me since first meeting him under duress. But there is no good way to broach a topic as sensitive as this. I think being here with him now is enough proof we have both progressed far enough to tackle such a fundamental flaw of our relationship.

"Have you ever considered me a mistake, Father?" I say still looking up into his eyes. He frowns.

"You, a mistake?"

"Not by bringing me into your home or giving me a real family, though I am grateful for both. I mean my existence. I know you were not a willing participant in my conception. Accounts state my mother drugged you to gain your consent. If you had been able to resist or escape, I would not exist at all. Do you ever think of me as simply a eugenics experiment masterminded by an unstable woman with delusions of immortality?"

"Sometimes it feels like you ask variations of these questions every other week. What good would it do now to admit resentment or ill will towards you? Damian, I first encountered you in a sewer after being overpowered by Talia and her Man-Bat Commandos. You held a sword against my throat. Within hours of being in my custody, you almost killed Tim, did kill the Spook and destroyed some of my most valuable belongings in a temper tantrum. It was not the best of beginnings for anyone involved. I would be lying if I said I have never begrudged your existence in my life. Ironically, most parents in this country often feel the same way. But, just like all of them, I have grown to love you. Now," He softly tugs my head back down, "If that is enough metaphysical soul-searching, let us examine some more Romantic poets. You seem to enjoy Wordsworth. I think we should try some Blake." He picks up the book and flicks to some of the rear-most pages before stopping. "Here, this was one of your grandmother's favourites." I scan the title.

"The Little Boy Lost? Is this some kind of slight against me, Father?" I inquire as his hands clasp themselves just below my navel. He grunts.

"It is short and, unlike many others of its kind, it has a happy ending. Please indulge me."

"I spoil you sometimes, Father. I hope you realise that." I tell him before clearing my throat. "Father. Father. Where are…"

"As it is written, Damian." I am instructed. I roll my eyes and sigh lethargically. He taps me on the chest in admonishment I likely deserve. He is right: it is brief. I begin again.

"Father! Father! Where are you going? O do not walk so fast. Speak father, speak to your little boy or else I shall be lost. The night was dark, no father was there, the child was wet with dew; the mire was deep and the child did weep, and away the vapour flew." I cannot help but frown. "How is that a happy ending, Father?"

"Look below it." I drop my eyes to the next entry and find it entitled 'The Little Boy Found'. There is a short silence.

"Am I to…"

"Yes, Son. Read it aloud." I clench my jaw in distaste before relaxing it. There is only Father here to witness this humiliation. It is tolerable. I clear my throat in what is fast becoming a habit before a rendition and then speak with confidence.

"The little boy lost in the lonely fen, led by the wand'ring light, began to cry but God ever nigh, appeared like his father in white. He kissed the child and by the hand led and to his mother brought, who in sorrow pale, thro' lonely dale, her little weeping boy sought." I receive a customary kiss on my scalp for this latest effort. I look forward to the gesture now, viewing it as a high sign of praise. I settle back into his embrace further and consider the poems again. "Why did Grandmother like this poem? Was she religious?"

"No. She considered herself spiritual, but not religious."

"Then why covet a poem that is explicitly about a deity? I find the underlying themes somewhat heavy-handed. _God will save you if you stray from the path of righteousness_ or whatever Christians call it. Is that not the crux of these works, the moral?" I say turning more pages to see if I can find religion in more of their narratives.

"It is an element of what is written, yes. She liked it because it was evocative. I like it because it reminds me of her."

"Did she make you read aloud too?"

"Of course."

"In circumstances, similar to these?"

"On occasion. It was more common for her and your grandfather to get me to recite them at dinner parties and charity functions."

"That sounds exploitive."

"That is somewhat silly considering how your mother exploited you for her father's benefit. I consider that a far more heinous abuse of a child than allowing them to recite poetry."

"I would call them even examples of abuse." My father laughs at this, genuinely finding it humorous. To my amazement, so do I. But I do not laugh: I giggle. I had no idea how children produced such a bizarre sound, until now. Children giggle when they are truly happy, as I am with Father. I have laughed contemptuously and derisively at people and enemies as a psychological tool, but nothing more. This is new and…wonderful. Father and I laugh together for almost two minutes. It feels like an eternity. When we stop, I find my head has fallen into his lap during our mutual hysteria. he looks down at me, smiling in incredulity.

"Do you laugh with Amber like this?"

"No. I…cannot recall ever being this…amused."

"Yes. I can't remember ever hearing you giggle. It was…delightful." It seems he is also familiar with the distinction between laughter and giggling. I imagine Dick to have giggled as a child. Jason and Drake, less likely. I sigh.

"Do not grow accustomed to it in future. Once is enough debasement for a lifetime." I caution him. Father responds by combing through my hair from his current vantage point.

"Or perhaps it might start a new trend. I am certain Ms Gilt would appreciate hearing your enjoyment from time to time."

"Perhaps." I say. I consider getting up: his lap is proving to be quite comfortable in its service as a pillow. "Do you think…she would like it if I read poetry with her?" I ask without moving. He shrugs.

"Have you seen anything to suggest she likes poetry to begin with?"

"Not especially. But then, until tonight, I had seen no evidence you liked poetry either, Father. It could be her hidden passion."

"It seems worth exploring. Tomorrow. Tonight, you still have several more poems to read. Think of it as more research for your profile of Amber Gilt." He picks up the book from my chest and opens it halfway through. "Read this." He says placing it in my hands. I consider sitting up again. I decide I don't want to. I'm fine here.

"Can I read it aloud from your lap?" I ask, despite feeling part of myself die inside for having articulated such a sickly request. Father smiles at me, combing through my hair again in giving me the permission I want.

"If you like. Begin."

I hold it above my head and clear my throat. "I wandered lonely as a cloud…"


End file.
